


Lead Me

by inmyeyes



Series: Dance With Me [1]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Drama, F/M, POV Second Person, Romance, Salsa dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1403629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inmyeyes/pseuds/inmyeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s just something about a man who knows how to lead…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lead Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part in a 4-part series called "Dance With Me". Inspired by dancing!Hiddles, and in particular, a gifset I saw of him dancing with ladies. Between that and my love for dancer!boys, this fic was born. Feedback is welcome and appreciated. Thanks, and hope you like! :)

As the song races towards its end, you breathe a sigh of relief and give a smile of thanks to your partner. As a lady, you were advised from the beginning of your foray into salsa that as far as possible you should not turn down offers to dance. But after that almost frustrating experience of being led too aggressively, you hope Alex (was that his name? The music is so loud that you really barely heard his introduction) does not necessitate you breaking that unspoken rule.

You let your hand slide from his and pantomime needing a drink and before he can nod, you’ve turned your back and made your way through the crowd to the bar. You weren’t lying, you do need a drink. The most recent dance notwithstanding, it has been a terrifically fun night. You had been on the dancefloor for almost an hour, too exhilarated by the fun of dancing to even take a break.

As you wait for the bartender to come back with your drink, you lean against the bar, feet tapping to the robust salsa beats and scanning the sea of dancers in front of you. At the far corner, you spot your friend Allison dancing with Mike, one of the guys from your salsa class. Not far from them are a few people you also recognise from class, dancing and laughing once in a while whenever one of them messed up a combination.

You watch them for a while as you gingerly sip your water (you’ve found that a clear mind without any alcohol makes for a more fun night of dancing) before someone else catches your eye. For one, he is one of the tallest men in the club. For another, the confidence with which he moves is easily the sexiest thing you have seen all night. (And in a salsa club, there is a whole lot of sexy going on.)

His snug white shirt fairly gleams under the strobe lights and it strains against his shoulders and chest as he moves. You note that his gaze is entirely on his partner and leaves her only when he needs to check their surroundings. As he lets go of her hands and they go into their individual shines, he laughs when she shimmies closer to him, slips into some fancy footwork before coyly rotating her hips through one whole eight-count. His grin crinkles his eyes as he reaches his hand out for her and they move into a turn combination.

‘Damn, they’re good,” you think, smiling behind your glass.

You can’t help but keep your gaze on them for the rest of the song. They are a well-matched pair, and while you applaud the lady for being a beautiful dancer with graceful styling, you also give the man a lot of kudos for they would not look so wonderful if he was not an excellent lead.

You feel a tap on your shoulder as you place your empty water glass on the bar. The guy introduces himself as Nick and you nod when he asks you to dance.

It is at least another 20 minutes before you cry tiredness and implore your friends to head to the bar for another drink. As you gulp down your glass (it’s too far into the night to pretend any ladylike behaviour), you try not to laugh as Allison tells how she misread one of her partner’s lead and accidentally elbowed his stomach. Allison, bless her dear heart, hasn’t danced at socials as often and still finds reading leads challenging sometimes.

As Allison segues into her next account of partner-dancing mishaps, you feel long fingers graze your arm. At first you shrug it off as just an accident. Then it happens again, this time a little more slowly, followed by an “Excuse me?”.

When you turn, you are greeted by smiling blue eyes that seem to look right into you, even in the dim light. If his British accent hadn’t been charming enough, his eyes would’ve done you in. It’s the man you were admiring earlier in the night, and he looks even more handsome up close. Your smile is involuntary as you say, “Yes?”

He leans a little closer so that you can hear him and his breath hits your ear as he asks, “Would you like to dance?”.

Your heart gallops in response and you tell yourself that it’s just nerves. You always get incredibly nervous when good leads ask you to dance. Your dance instructors have always encouraged you to dance with good leads, saying that it’s how you’ll learn to be a better follow and that it would improve your dancing tremendously. But the unpredictable nature of social dancing still intimidates you sometimes. What if he leads you into a pattern you don’t know? What if you stumble over the sequence? What if you feel absolutely lost? It has taken time and a whole lot of dancing with many different leads for you to get over even some of that anxiety. The loss of control is daunting for you, a self-avowed control freak. You feel much better about it now, but once in a while you still fret about it when you get asked to dance.

Having seen him dance earlier in the night, you are doubly nervous now. You feel a not-so-subtle nudge on your back from Allison, presumably her sign to tell you to accept. You let your smile widen as you place your hand in his, “I’d love to.”

He leans in again. “What’s your name, darlin’?”

That accent will be the death of you. “Mila,” you answer. You didn’t realise you had shuffled closer to him until you felt his other hand on your lower back. Thank goodness the dim light hides the blush climbing up your cheeks.

“I’m Tom, it’s lovely to meet you, Mila.”

You aren’t sure if you’re glad or worried when you hit the dancefloor with Tom, your hand enveloped in his long, elegant fingers and the band segues into a song with a slower tempo. Glad, because reading a lead is a little simpler with a slower song. Worried, because your styling has to reflect that slower, more sensual groove of the song. A slower tempo sometimes gives you a little too much time to overthink your dancing instead of just letting the music move you.

As he leads you into a basic, you take a deep breath and tell yourself to calm down. ‘It’s just a dance,’ is the refrain repeating in your mind.

The two of you keep it light for the first few bars of the song, getting the feel of each other’s dancing. Being taller than the average woman, it feels lovely to dance with a tall man. Dancing with him, you feel like you can own your height and not feel awkward about it.

You feel yourself start to relax. Tom gives your fingers a quick squeeze, and you return with a sheepish smile as you realise that he noticed your nerves. He reaches his arm to move you into a closed hold and whispers teasingly, “I won’t bite, I promise,” before leading you into a turn. You are smiling when you face him again.

The dance becomes infinitely more fun now that you’ve stopped worrying. And you were right; Tom is an excellent lead. His moves are clean and clear, his resistance and strength in his frame and arms are just right, and never once do you second-guess what he wants you to do. The more relaxed you feel, the easier is it for you to read his lead and the more you trust that he won’t steer you wrong. In return, you can feel his assessing gaze on you, not in a judgemental way but you sense that he’s making sure you are comfortable and confident before he tries a different combination.

Dancing with Tom is a thrill. An unvarnished joy to be able to let go and trust that he is there to take care of you and lead you into whatever combination looks and feel good. All the classes you took have paid off; for the most part, he leads you into combinations and patterns which you are familiar with. In the instances when you realise you have no idea what is going on, you release a breath and trust in his lead. While you may not know the exact combination, his lead is sure and strong enough that you follow easily. 

You feel the pull of his fingers against yours as he leads you into an open break and into a cuddle, dropping into a lean before spinning you out. You are laughing when he turns you, your joined hands tangled as he wraps you and then smoothly untangling as he leads you out. When Tom releases his hold on you and you segue into a shine, you feel like there’s only you and him and the music and it is the most glorious, free feeling.

You feel like a massive flirt as you swivel your hips, arms fanning out gracefully. You catch the break in the music with a slow rotation of your shoulders, feeling pleased about getting the musicality of the song. Through it all, his eyes never leave yours and his lips quirk into an appreciative smile.

The song is winding down; he reaches for you again and you slide into his arms. As he leads you into a right turn, there’s a glint in his eye. He hooks your right arm to his left, and though you have no clue what he is up, you don’t resist. You feel his other arm wrap around your waist and when he dips you, you can’t hold back the bubble of laughter.

The crowd bursts into applause for the band and Tom slowly brings you back up. In reflex, your hand reaches for his shoulder and through your racing heart, you barely register that now you both have your arms around each other. Tom is grinning and his eyes do that crinkly thing and god, this man is too dangerous.

Abruptly, you tear your eyes away and release your hold on him. “Thank you for the dance, Tom.”

But as you take a step back, he grabs your hand. You hope he doesn’t feel the shiver that wracks your body at the touch of his lips on your knuckles. “Believe me darlin’, it was my pleasure.”

You dare a glance back into his eyes and a quick smile before you melt into the crowd in search of your friends. You need a drink. Preferably something with tequila.

In the end, it is Allison who finds you. She ignores the drink in your hand and holds out her hand for a high-five.

“Girlllll,” she exclaims, dramatically fanning herself, “you and that hottie were sizzling out there! I didn’t know you could do half of that stuff!”

‘I didn’t know either,’ you mutter to yourself. The burn of the tequila down your throat is strangely comforting.

Your lack of a response doesn’t hinder Allison at all. “Seriously, you guys looked amazing together just now. And don’t pretend you aren’t interested cos I know you, Mila.”

You shrug and look away from her, concentrating on your drink. But Allison’s poke to your stomach breaks your facade and you both giggle like schoolgirls.

“All right,” you concede, “I won’t lie, that dance felt amazing.”

“Mila, that man is amazing. Number one: look at him!” she exclaimed. A second finger, “Number two: and then he dances, and boy can he dance. Those hips don’t lie, babe.” Her hands came up in mock surrender. “Lethal combination. Lethal.” Her eyes widened. “Waiiiiit, or is he…?”

You almost spit out your drink. “No!… Well, I don’t think so.” You ponder for a moment, rewinding to the moment at the end of the dance with his hand warm on your lower back and that kiss on your hand that you can still feel. “I hope not?”

“Did you guys talk at all?”

“No, not really.” You return the glass to the bar, suddenly feeling restless. “Do you wanna head out? I think I’m done for the night.”

Allison gives you a look, but nods her assent.

On the drive home, you tell yourself that you weren’t scanning the club for him as you made your way out.

* * * * *

You let Allison, Mike and the rest of your usual group of salsa-dancing friends talk you into going to Azucar again on Saturday night. They tell you, “C’mon Mila, we have to practise that new turn pattern we learnt in class this week or we’re not gonna get it.”

The night ends without any sighting of Tom, and you don’t meet eyes with Allison lest she sees your disappointment.

* * * * *

It is maybe a month later (well, okay, 5 weeks… but who’s counting?) before you see him again. You almost didn’t recognise him; his hair is darker and shorter with only a hint of curl. No white shirt time, but a snug v-neck t-shirt. You’re momentarily distracted by the flex of his biceps as he moves his dance partner into a double turn.

Then you remember that is inordinately rude to be looking at someone other than your own partner so you tear your eyes away. At the end of the song, before you can slink off the dancefloor, one of your friends, Aaron, slips an arm around your waist and pulls you into another dance. You resolutely tell yourself not to look for him as you dance.

There are no surprises when you’re dancing with Aaron. You’ve danced with him countless times and you know his salsa vocabulary is similar to yours so there’s no stress factor. It’s just a fun, good time interspersed with suppressed laughter whenever one of you flubs.

You’re breathless with laughter when Aaron gives you a solemn bow at the end of your dance. But the laughter melts away as you see the lean figure just behind him. Aaron glances behind him and wiggles his brows suggestively at you. When he slinks away, his whispered “don’t do anything I would do” earns him a slug on his shoulder.

When you look back to Tom, his lips curl up into a smile and it’s like a punch to your stomach. ‘Jesus Christ, this man is menace to womankind,’ you think to yourself. He holds out his hand and inclines his head, a question in his eyes. The answer is, of course, yes, and you fight the thrill of anticipation that courses through you when his fingers curl under yours and you both start moving to the beat.

This time, there’s no hesitancy, no warm-up period needed. He holds out his free hand and once you’re linked, you weave around each other, arms connected, wrapping, untangling until at last he spins you out. The rest of the dance passes by in a blur. You are lost in the feel of the music and the strength of him as he deftly manoeuvres you in various moves and combinations. You don’t know if it’s just because it’s so crowded tonight but you’re dancing closer to each other and it feels like his eyes are burning into yours. 

The song ends all too quickly for your liking. You’re ready to release your hold on his hand but he tightens his grip and pulls you closer.

“Stay,” he whispers in your ear, his hand warm and firm on your lower back. “One more dance.”

* * * * *

At the end of the second dance, Tom keeps hold of your hand and leads you through the crowd. There is a ball of nerves swirling in your stomach and you try to ignore it, just like you’re ignoring the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours. Tom looks over his shoulder as though making sure you’re still there and as he smiles, he moves his hand until your fingers are entwined with his.

He has brought you to the outdoor terrace at the side of the club. The night breeze is a cool counterpoint to the heat in the club and you happily take a deep breath to still your racing heart. It’s fairly deserted out here yet Tom doesn’t stop until you’re both ensconced in the far corner.

Even in the dim light, his eyes are arresting. He keeps his eyes on yours as he steps closer to you. Instinctively you move back until you feel the cool railing against your back and then there’s nowhere else to run.

Not that you want to run. No, your heart may be beating madly and you’re trying hard to keep your breathing even… but what you’re feeling is anticipation, not fear. Anticipation which further heightens when he cages you in with his arms.

When his lips touch yours, your breath hitches. Even though he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body, that soft, sweet slide of his lips against yours is the only point of contact. A beat, then he presses his lips to yours again.

You feel him start to move away, but before his lips can leave yours, you’ve grabbed the front of his shirt, your mouth following his. That one action seems to break his dam of reserve; one of his hands snake around your waist, pulling you right up against his body as his kiss deepens.

You let your hands slide up his chest and up his neck until they’re buried in his hair. The movement brings your bodies even closer together, making you gasp. His mouth, his arms around you, being pressed against his lean form- it is almost too much. Your fingers tighten in his hair and the motion draws a low groan from him.

When he breaks the kiss, he leans his forehead against yours and all you can hear is laboured breathing, both yours and his. His fingers are making languorous strokes along your back.

It is you who initiates the second kiss, and this time it is a slow burn of lips and mouth and tongue, interspersed with fingers buried in hair (his) and hands fisted in cloth (yours).

You feel his lips curl into a smile and when you separate, you’re both smiling at each other like loons. Tom tucks your hair behind your ears and kisses you on the nose before taking your hand and leading to you the empty couch.

“Give me a minute, don’t move. I’ll be right back,” he tells you with a squeeze of his hand.

As you stare at his retreating form, you wonder what the heck you are doing. Yes, he’s gorgeous and he dances like a dream… but other than his name, you don’t know anything about him. Your fingers involuntarily come up to your mouth as those kisses replay in your head. It’s been a while since you’ve been kissed like that (or since you kissed that way, for that matter!). 

But maybe that’s it; you’re here because you want to know him. It’s so silly but you are interested; and you haven’t been interested in someone in so long that the feeling is beyond foreign and extremely uncomfortable. 

You shake off your thoughts and turn to face the twinkling lights of the city laid out in front of you. You’re almost tempted to sneak away, but that would be unconscionably rude.

Yes, that’s why you’re there. You don’t want to be rude.

You get up from your seat, feeling too antsy. You take another deep breath as you head back to the the edge of the terrace, the railing cool beneath your grip. Your eyes stare unseeing into the night sky, a hundred different thoughts racing your mind when you feel someone come up next to you. You briefly close your eyes and remind yourself to keep a level head.

But when your eyes meet a set of cerulean ones, your heart starts to thump and you know you are doomed.

Tom offers you an empty glass and lifts the bottle of water in his other hand for you to see, an adorable grin on his face. “I thought you might need a drink.”

With a muttered “thanks”, you focus on the glass of water he has handed to you as if it is the most fascinating thing in the world. You chance a glance at him and get ensnared by his gaze, even as he slowly lowers his own glass. The movement drops your eyes to his lips and you take a nervous swallow as you watch his tongue dart out.

Oh god.

As nonchalantly as you can, you turn away from Tom to break the moment. ‘Oh, this is such bad idea,’ the little rational voice in your heart warns. And the only way you know to make yourself feel better is to seize control. So you attack with a question.

“How long have you been dancing salsa?”

He throws his head back and laughs, a sheepish smile creeping on his face. “I learnt about a year ago but I don’t get the chance to dance as often as I’d like.”

You raise a brow in disbelief. “Right… so this is you without enough practice?”

Tom’s eyes crinkle with mirth and he gives a casual shrug. “I have a good memory for the movement.” He leans against the railing, glass dangling off his fingers as he looks at you sideways. “If you dance with me more, you’ll realise I have a limited repertoire that I always dip into.”

“Such modesty,” you say with a teasing smile.

“What about you? How long have you been dancing?”

“Dancing? Forever. But salsa is a new development for me.”

“Really?” Tom’s interest in you seems to sharpen. “What do you dance?”

“Everything,” you tell him, the thought of the one constant thing in your life making you grin. “I started with ballet when I was about 5 and eventually went through the gamut of jazz, tap, contemporary, hip-hop. Hip-hop is the one that stuck though, that’s where I feel most at home these days. And now I’m branching into partner-dances and salsa is my first stop.”

Tom looks suitably impressed and the admiration in his eyes makes you flush. “That’s fantastic! I’ve always loved to dance, but it was only in my 20s that I started with lessons.” He smiles to himself as he confesses, “I took flamenco classes when I was in uni.”

You can’t help but smile at the mental image. “Oh, did you? And how did you find it?”

“I was a bit of a mess,” he shares in a conspiratorial whisper. “Shhhh, don’t tell anyone.”

At that, your smile blossoms into a full-blown laugh.

* * * * *

It is as though he found the secret to breeching your ice queen façade. Or maybe you unwittingly gave him the key when you opened the conversation on dance. It is the one topic that you feel passionate and comfortable about discussing with almost anyone… and before you knew it, he had melted your reserve. 

Maybe it’s because he has turned out to be a kindred spirit; he talks of acting in the same fervent and passionate way you speak of dance and the light in his eyes is impossible to resist. Seated next to him, you listen to him talk about his turn at the Donmar Warehouse in Shakespeare’s Othello. His enthusiasm and clear love for the work echoes through in his tone and eloquence, but you’re slightly distracted by the way his fingers almost absent-mindedly play with the ends of your hair, his arm a warm band around your shoulders.

His soft laugh brings your focus back. “Are you even listening to me or am I boring you already?” he asks with a teasing tug on your hair.

You narrow your eyes at him, a playful smile about your lips. “Well…” When he gives you a look of mock outrage, it’s your turn to laugh. “I’m kidding! I haven’t read Othello in years, but you’ve got me interested in reading it again. That, and scouring Youtube to see if I can find video of your performance.”

“You don’t have to do that, darlin’.”

The look of vague embarrassment on his face makes you throw him a bone. “In return, I’ll let you look up videos of me dancing. It’s a fair trade.”

He holds out his hand. “Deal.”

As you slip your hand into his, you have a feeling that you’ve agreed to so much more.


End file.
